Good, because Bobby's just arrived from his trip to the Atlantic County Morgue, where he'd been examining what little remains of Dead Mitchell. The boys excuse themselves from Ranger Rick's table to listen in as Bobby explains that the bite radius on the corpse's wounds was too small for a Leviathan. Also, pieces of the heart were found, so they're probably not looking at a werewolf attack, either, and as "a Wendigo don't leave no scraps," Bobby's finally willing to entertain the notion that they're actually dealing with the Jersey Devil, here. Dean decides this would be an excellent moment to order lunch, and he hails a passing waiter like so: "Hey! Uh, Brandon -- we grab a booth?" Brandon, who's popped the collar on his Biggerson's-issued polo shirt because that's just the way Brandon rolls, responds in kind like so: "Hey! Uh, douchewad -- a hostess will seat you." "Do I look like a freaking hostess?" Brandon adds, all surly with the attitude and the gum-chewing and such. "Do you want to look like a hostess?" Dean weakly retorts. Surly Brandon gifts Dean with a brief Glare Of Death before vanishing kitchenwards, and ever-helpful Sam takes this opportunity to point out that Dean's witty comeback was, in fact, neither.